


Pavlovian Gambit

by profmeteor



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Conditioning, Food Kink, Kissing, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profmeteor/pseuds/profmeteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donatello tries out a bit of classical conditioning on Mikey, connecting kisses to chocolate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pavlovian Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon over at tumblr; the characterization is a blend of 2k3 and 2k12.

Mikey is settled in an unused nook in Donnie’s workshop (entirely of his own volition and not at all because he’s been scolded out of the living room) when Donnie offers him a square of dark chocolate.

“Here,” Donnie says. When Mikey hesitates, he waggles the chocolate. “Go ahead.” Before Donnie can go back on the offer, Mikey snaps it up.

The chocolate is high-quality, thick, and Mikey leans back to admire it. This is the kind that he wants to let melt in his mouth, coating his tongue with its rich sweetness. He can’t help but crack it between his teeth, though, just once, and he’s rewarded with a gooey burst of caramel. “Oh, man, Donnie, this is _great,_ ” Mikey says around a mouthful of melting chocolate. “Where’d you get it?”

“April.” Donnie’s flushed, a little fidgety, touching at his pouches, his belt, his mask, the tools on his desk. Mikey’s too enamored with the chocolate to care. “It’s good?”

Mikey pushes the chocolate with his tongue — there, there, against the roof his mouth. He tips his head back and lets it drain down his throat. “Mm!”

“O-okay.” Donnie swallows. “Okay,” he says again, and then he takes Mikey’s face and kisses him.

Mikey opens his mouth in surprise and lifts his hand. Before he can think to kiss back or push him or anything else, Donnie’s shuffling across the room. His lips have chocolate smeared on them. His face is dark, turned away.

“O-kay,” Mikey echoes. His whole body is weirdly tight, his heart thudding in his throat.

Maybe it’s a toll. One square of chocolate for one kiss. Mikey ducks his head. He wants to lick his lips, but it’s too personal, suddenly, like licking them would be admitting something. He’s burning.

Later, when he emerges from Donnie’s workshop, it feels like he’s cracking out of an egg, like he’s forgotten how to use his body and is naked, vulnerable. He’s pretty sure Leo and Raph can tell Donnie’s kissed him, even though they don’t act weird about it — he rubs at his mouth, and rubs at it again, and thinks about rinsing the taste of chocolate and caramel from his mouth. He can’t quite bring himself to do it.

*

“Do you want some chocolate?” Donnie asks. This time, Mikey pays attention to the flush under his eyes, and he mimics it without meaning to. But — _chocolate_. Of course he does.

He straightens and shuts the fridge. They’re alone. In the other room, Raph and Leo are bickering over the remote. Patrol’s not for a few more hours. “Sign me up!” Mikey says, knowing he’s taken a little too long to respond.

Donnie doesn’t deliver immediately: He’s just finished eating, and rinses off his plate, dries his hands finger-by-finger, all while Mikey stands there and licks along his teeth. By the time he approaches Mikey, he’s not blushing, anymore, but neither can he quite meet Mikey’s eye. The bar is in his pouch. The crinkling of the foil flickers across Mikey’s skin.

It’s just chocolate, he thinks, as Donnie breaks off a neat square.

“Here,” Donnie says.

Mikey takes it with his fingers, wondering as he does what Donnie would do if he took it with his mouth. Just chocolate. Nothing weird. Except Donnie watches him as he slips it into his mouth, as he cracks its delicate shell with his teeth and sucks the caramel. Mikey wishes he’d had the forethought to bite it in half, to kind of show off, since Donnie can only follow the obscured movements of his cheeks.

Mikey swallows enough spit and chocolate to say: “Want some?” It sounds pretty cool. Kinda cool, at least.

But Donnie’s mouth quirks in a shy smile and he shakes his head, ducking. “Nah.” The foil crinkles between his hands. Mikey shivers. “It’s for you.”

“Okay.” Mikey swallows again. It clicks in his throat, noisy.

Donnie kisses him, then, nosing against his cheek so he can find his mouth with his eyes shut. This time, it’s not much of a surprise, so Mikey focuses, and there’s so much to focus on — the softness of Donnie’s mouth, the chaste press of his lips, the saltiness of the leftover dumplings Donnie was just eating, the smell of his body, not quite sweat or musk, something dark like oil. Mikey grabs the tails of his bandana and kisses back, not sure if he should open his mouth or what — and then he does, and proceeds to drool all over him.

Donnie laughs and leans back.

“Eugh,” Mikey says. He’s losing cool points by the second. “Sorry, man, that was…”

“Kinda gross,” Donnie says, more amused than anything. He wipes his chin. Licks his lips. He tucks the chocolate back into its pouch. “Very…Mikey.”

“Right…so, uh. Round two?”

“That was round two,” Donnie says. He’s backing up, smiling like he knows something Mikey doesn’t — which of _course_ he does, it’s _Donnie,_ but it’s still a little unfair.

“Round three?” MIkey tries. “I promise I won’t drool this time —”

“I have to tune up the Shellraiser,” Donnie says.

“Right, but, y’know, walking is healthy, so if it happened to break down, that wouldn’t be so bad —”

But Donnie just waves his hand and ducks out of the kitchen.

Mikey groans.

*

It’s a double-split night, and Mikey has been foisted into Donnie’s care, as Raph so generously put it. It wouldn’t be so bad if Mikey wasn’t remembering the press of Donnie’s mouth every five seconds.

Donnie doesn’t seem to remember it at all, remaining composed and focused. It’s making MIkey feel like a dumb kid. He thought he was over that complex. He can be cool and collected, too — and he sulks over this, leaning against the concrete wall of the basement as Donnie fiddles with the breaker box. He’s setting up a timer or something (a remote thing? _Something?_ ) and Mikey’s just an accessory for now. Watch duty. Mostly he’s watching Donnie work out of the corner of his eye.

Just as Mikey has decided _screw it,_ he’ll be cool, he’ll just take Donnie’s chin and kiss him like the broad-chested heroes in the movies do, Donnie leans back and sighs happily. “Let’s see if this bad boy works,” Donnie says.

Mikey swallows and nods.

Donnie fiddles with the remote — the lights go out, then flicker back on. “Perfect!” He slams the breaker box shut. “Let’s go wait for Raph and Leo.”

“B team strikes again!” Mikey cheers — _okay, just grab him, just kiss him_ — but Donnie gives him this _look,_ like _are you ever gonna drop that B team crap?_ So Mikey drops it, a little deflated, even more sulky than before.

On the roof, Donnie squats behind the roof access and glances at Mikey. After a moment, he says, “We have a while.” Then: “Want some chocolate?”

A shiver runs down Mikey’s spine. “Sure!” He meant to say something else, something witty and charming, but he’s shorting out a little. Sure. Like an overeager kid.

Donnie slides it out of the pouch, and for the first time, Mikey realizes he’s not eating it himself. There are only two squares broken off the bar. This is for _Mikey._ It’s for him. He breaks off a square, imperfectly, so the shell of the next piece cracks a little, revealing a sliver of honey-colored cream. “Oops — ah, forget it. Here.”

Mikey ducks his head to take it with his mouth.

Donnie laughs, a bit strangled, and holds it just out of reach. “What are you doing?” In the shadows, it’s hard to tell if he’s flushed, but the air is warmer between them. Mikey resists the urge to grab him. To grab his thigh, or plastron, or shell.

Instead, he holds out his hand. “You’re no fun.”

Donnie sets the square in his palm. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” he mutters.

“Whatever, Plato.” Mikey bites the square in half this time — the caramel oozes everywhere, on his lips and chin and fingers, and he doesn’t lick or wipe it away. He watches Donnie, defiant, impatient, sucking noisily at the chocolate in his mouth. Donnie rubs at his own mouth with a thumb — he’s transfixed.

MIkey takes his sweet time, this round. By the time Donnie kisses him, his whole body is tight and sensitive, prickling with potential.

Donnie goes slow, leisurely. One sticky kiss on the corner of his mouth, a hand just above Mikey’s kneepad, on his thigh. Another kiss, slicker, on the other corner. He licks the caramel away from Mikey’s mouth — they press their lips together, Mikey’s sticky hands dragging up Donnie’s neck, his jaw. He’s almost forgotten where they are, because this time Donnie smells like ozone, this time Donnie is sticky, too, this time Donnie’s tongue flicks like a tentative promise at the strands of caramel on his chin.

But Donnie remembers, and pulls back just as they’ve started. “They’ll be here soon,” he says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mikey bites his lip, too miffed to trust himself to answer. He’s _thrumming_ — he wants this so bad it’s almost a need. Donnie’s not being fair.

This is cheating.

*

It’s late, so late that the sky outside is almost gray, and Mikey has taken an obstinate and silent post in Donnie’s workshop. It’s a protest. Sure, he could probably drag Donnie out from under the Shellraiser and just kiss him, but it’s more important for Donnie to realize what a butt he’s being.

He wants chocolate. He wants to know what Donnie’s tongue feels like on other places, like his throat. He wants that electric tension in his gut again. He wants to know if Donnie actually wants to kiss him, or if this is just some weird chocolatier cartel-slash-brothel operation.

“You’re still here?” Donnie asks. He’s wiping oil stains off his hands; he’s a mess. “Jeez, Mikey, it’s almost 4:30. Go to bed.”

Mikey glowers. He’s not going to waste his breath pointing out the hypocrisy, tucking it away for another argument.

When Mikey doesn’t respond, Donnie’s face closes — though from guilt or something else, Mikey’s not sure. “Oh. You…” Donnie sidesteps, angling himself away from him, lowers his head. “You want some chocolate.” It’s not a question.

“I wanna know what the heck you’re doing. It’s messing with me!” Mikey hesitates. “But, yeah, that too.”

Donnie nods to himself. “Have you told anybody?” He opens the pouch — the foil crinkles, and Mikey’s thighs tense. His lips tingle, like Donnie’s already kissed him. “About…this.”

“No.”

Donnie cracks off a square. Mikey’s already salivating. “You won’t?”

“What’s that got to do with _anything?_ ”

“Here.” Donnie holds out the square — Mikey, too stubborn right now to acquiesce to his routine, tugs Donnie’s wrist close to his mouth and takes the chocolate whole, sucking Donnie’s fingers into his mouth as he does.

He’s rewarded with a tiny groan. Donnie yanks his hand back. Clears his throat. “Um. Well. Y-you know how Sensei’s always been adamant that I shouldn’t, uh, experiment with you guys?”

“After the wheel incident, yeah,” Mikey says thickly. He chews the chocolate, hardly noticing the taste, wanting Donnie to shut up and bend over and kiss him.

‘I think…this counts. So don’t tell.”

Mikey swallows. “Whatever, dude.”

Donnie leans down — cups his face — presses. This time, Mikey pulls him, closer, closer, down, until Donnie’s forced to straddle him, kissing all the while, skittish with his hands.

“That’s —enough,” Donnie pants. He’s hot, radiating with it, his thighs taut against Mikey, and even in this low light it’s obvious he’s flustered.

“Aw, c’mon, no one’s gonna — “

“Just kissing,” Donnie says, absently, as if to himself. He staggers out of the chair.

“What?”

“Goodnight, Mikey.”

“But —”

“Goodnight.”

Mikey watches him go, pouting, as petulant as he’s ever been, the back of his neck hot. If Donnie wants to be that way, he should be that way on his _own_ time. If he just wants to kiss, that’s fine — Mikey’s starting to really, really love kissing him. No chocolate necessary, even.

This roundabout thing, though, needs to go.

*

But the next time Donnie offers,Mikey can’t work up any resistance, too grateful to be given this, too eager for their next kiss.

Mikey takes the chocolate, lets it melt in his mouth. His whole body is buzzing by the time he swallows; his lips tender, his palms clammy. He swallows — leans in, eyes closed — and he’s rewarded with Donnie’s mouth, his hands, his tongue, his heat.

*

Whatever it is that Donnie is trying to work out takes nine pieces of chocolate. Nine pieces, spread out over two and a half weeks; nine times Mikey paid the toll with sweet kisses that never lasted as long as he wanted. It’s Mikey’s personal opinion that he’s gotten much better along the way, learning how to suck at Donnie’s bottom lip to make his breath hitch and how to tease his tongue against Donnie’s like an unfurling wave.

*

For three days, Donnie does nothing. Mikey can’t help the prickle of anticipation every time they’re alone; the slightest crinkling noise is enough to set him on edge.

Of all things, it ends while they’re doing the dishes together.

Donnie’s drying, meticulous as always, thoughtful. Maybe Mikey’s imagining things, but he’s pretty sure Donnie will break out the chocolate soon — they have three more pieces to go through, after all. Mikey’s in a hurry, scrubbing everything down a little too haphazard, so that Donnie will often hand back a plate or pan and chide him, telling him to do it again.

When Mikey finishes scrubbing the last pot and hands it over, Donnie pauses, cradling it with the towel. He leans in, smiling like he’s onto something, and brushes his lips against Mikey’s.

The taste of chocolate floods his mouth.


End file.
